


Is This The Way You Want Me

by pregnantzombie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Lesbian Sex, M/M, Nipple Play, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Xenophilia, Yearning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pregnantzombie/pseuds/pregnantzombie
Summary: Falling in love is hard. It's hard, and nobody understands.Ch 1: Dave and Karkat flirt incessantly and it has started to whittle away at Karkat's emotional stability. Rose and Kanaya want to progress their relationship to the next level, but openly talking about it poses challenges they'd rather avoid.Ch 2: Karkat spends some time with Kanaya and finally mellows out a little. Rose loosens up too, and fools around with Kanaya. Dave relfects a little with Rose.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	1. It Keeps On Happening

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you for reading! I'd like to take a moment to preface this with a few thoughts, so please feel free to skip. If not, thank you for reading this too!
> 
> I'm currently in a lockdown/quarantine type situation, and I know many people took this time to chuckle to themselves and think "fuck it, we're all stuck at home so what better time to revisit Homestuck?" As you can guess, I'm one of those people.
> 
> Bearing that in mind, I'm fortunate enough to have some free time and I'm going to try to hammer out this whole story while I can. So I'm hoping for relatively quick updates and a speedy finish time. I hope this doesn't jinx it!
> 
> Tags will be updated as I go along, and do keep in mind there will be multiple brief or ongoing situations and themes involved. I do hope you'll enjoy this little yarn I've dreamed up, whether you're a long term Homestuck fan or someone revisiting a classic under new circumstances.
> 
> Happy reading!

Your name is Kanaya Maryam and it is very brisk on this meteor. 

You sit alone in your respite block for the time being, but you aren’t lonely. In fact, you appreciate the calm. Often, the common area bustles with a bit more liveliness than you would prefer. Additionally, you find that plain gray walls and floors come off a bit dreary. And so, with very little else to do to fill your time, you’ve decided to take on a project. It’s nothing pressing, nor is it anything cerebral. But it is, you might venture to say, fun. There are few ways to pass the time on your extensive voyage. 

While certainly it could have been a much simpler task to alchemize a few nice throw pillows and toss them together into a pile, it would have taken very little time. However, were you to take that course, you’d already be finished with your project and you’d already have returned to the dreary hours of boredom spent rereading the same books and rewatching the same handful of movies. No, this way is better. And after all, it is sometimes nice to create something from nothing with your own two hands and marvel at your progress as each part slowly comes together. Of course, the primary reasoning is to make the agonizing time pass.

You spent plenty of time collecting your materials. A nice tapestry here, a discarded garment of clothing there, some shears, thread, and batting. Now you sit with your carefully arranged patterns and feel satisfaction with each careful stitch pulled in place. Slowly but surely, you’ll breathe some much needed decorative life into this meteor. 

Your tongue pokes out from past your lips thoughtfully as you absentmindedly dream of what your final outcome might look like. Focus is key- you don’t want to get ahead of yourself and distract yourself with idle thoughts about what you’ll do once this is complete, nor do you want to fret over what may come in the future. Yes, it is best to focus on your present task. Your fingers continue to rhythmically pull the threaded needle along the hem you’re meticulously creating. Right now, there is nothing else on your mind beyond your creative endeavors into the aesthetic.

That is, of course, why it startles you so dramatically when the heavy door to your respite block abruptly bursts open and slams against the wall. 

Your friend has never been known for having much decorum to his demeanor, nor has he ever been known to keep his voice at a reasonable volume. You’re startled, but keep yourself collected. Well, mostly collected. You dropped your stitch.

“Finally!” he screams at you, arms flailing above him. His eyebrows are scrunched up and his cheeks burn red with what you can only imagine is egregious self inflicted fury.

“Hi Karkat,” you greet him simply. No need to ask him what’s wrong, as he is sure to explosively inform you regardless of whether or not you inquire.

“Trying to find you has been more fucking difficult than trying to fucking juggle my own globes and gargle my festering nook sweat!” Karkat splutters, eye twitching. 

“Is that what you’ve been doing in your spare time?” You smirk up at him.

“I, what? NO?!” He loses his thunder burst from his entrance and falters, but then seemingly finds his mental footing once again. “No, what the fuck, Kanaya? No, we’re surrounded here with all these asscrunching fucks who won’t get it so I’ve been looking up and down this god forsaken rock for what can only be time eternal, getting my shit in a twist like a fucking shitsquatting bulgehumper, thinking ‘Hm, could Kanaya be in here? Nope, just some nooksniffing assholes playing with a bunch of cans of beans like it’s wriggler fun time jamboree!’ and onto the next room, where I miraculously find even more fucking useless activity and general douchepeddling debauchery. I even checked every revolting fluid stained ablution block, wondering where you had fucked off to, and then I thought ‘Hey, why not check the least likely place for anyone to ever be?’ And there you are, just sitting here-”

“And then you found me sitting peacefully in my respite block,” you curtly interrupt him.

He picks up on your tone and cuts his rant short. You place your project gently to the side, fold your hands in your lap and turn to him to give him your full attention. His breath hitches and then he sighs.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he grunts out and lets his arms fall to his sides.

“It’s okay,” you quickly reassure him.

The room goes quiet, save for the breeze whistling softly through the air ducts. You wait, yet he doesn’t continue. You wait some more, knowing full well Karkat must be dealt with under very specific terms.

“I shouldn’t have come in here shouting at you like that,” he shamefully glances up to you. “It’s just that I’m so frustrated with myself and I can’t talk to anyone about anything. You’re the only person here who isn’t an ignorant fucking alien or a shitspewing tentjamming selfish shitlicking waste of space or a gigglefits bulgeteasing candycoated ass bitch. Or the nice little chess guy. You can talk to the mayor about anything but it’s not like that’s actually fucking helpful in any fathomable way whatsoever. Or I guess I could talk to those other people if I hated myself enough, but it sounds as pleasant as ripping out my own eyes and shoving them up my nook, and-”

“You’re getting away from yourself,” you inform him, choosing to ignore his string of insults since they weren’t directed at you.

“Oh…” Karkat falters again. “Yeah… Anyway, so I came to talk to you.”

“So you came to talk to me,” you repeat it back.

“Yeah.”

He inhales a deep breath with purpose. You can veritably see his think pan racing, despite his best attempts to restrain himself. Likewise, you attempt to poise yourself with your least inquisitorial disposition. A few strained moments pass and neither of you speak. Then, as abruptly as he entered, something sparks in him and he lights up again.

“No, you know what, Kanaya?” Karkat raises his voice again, but this time with a new flair of indignance fueled fervor. “I don’t need to tell you shit! It’s my own personal business, and I don’t want you meddling around in my goddamn life, for once!”

Ah, so what you had assumed was his moment of clairvoyance to speak with you like a calm and rational person turned out to merely be the eye of the storm. Your emotional tornado of a dear friend turns on his heels and stomps excessively loudly out your door and down the hallway. He makes it a few steps before turning around and heading back to your door with the explicit and singular purpose of slamming it shut with a cantankerous snarl on his twisted little face.

He clomps off again after making a completely unnecessary show of his mysterious frustrations and you narrow your eyes at the door until the hefty sounds of his stomps grow distant, and then silent. You exhale, suddenly exhausted.

You do not change your steely demeanor or fret much over the outburst. You do, however, decide perhaps to indulge in just a bit of meddling. You’ve largely given up old habits of uninvited involvement in others’ affairs, yet then again… addiction is a powerful thing. It is time to take a walk.

Though lovely as it may be, your sewing can be done another time. It would seem a better way to pass the time has just presented itself. You give what is sure to only be a brief and temporary pause to your personal project and bring yourself to the door. The halls are quiet save for the pattering of your footsteps towards the common area. 

In short time, you find yourself in the familiar den-like area. Dave and Rose occupy either side of the room, paying the other no mind. Dave’s head bobs along as his pen alternates between furious scribbling and thoughtful tapping as he scratches out what you assume must be slam poetry. Rose has her back turned to the entrance. You cannot immediately discern what she is doing but you can tell she has found something with which to preoccupy herself. You do not announce your presence.

“Oh shit,” Dave notices you first. “She’s back.”

This catches Rose’s attention and she turns to give you a friendly wave. You can’t help but smile in return. She rises to join you and Dave near the entrance of the room, gliding over effortlessly in just a few steps.

“Look, Kanaya,” Dave drops his pen and peers up at you past his aviators. “I dunno how many times I gotta tell you, but the cape is off limits.”

“I am not here regarding the cape,” you dismiss him.

“Oh. Then bear it as a reminder. I know it would completely max out the cool points on your pillow pile, but strictly speaking the cape is off limits. These threads represent the Strider brand, know what I’m saying? When people see this cape, they know they’re about to be slammed with beats more ill than Charlie’s grandpa in the Willy Wonka movie. ...wait, that’s not a great way to express the testament to the illness factor regarding my beats. Whatever. The cape stays firmly attached to the Strider.”

“She doesn’t want the cape, Dave,” Rose rolls her eyes.

“It’s nice to see you, Rose,” you take a step closer towards her.

“Oh I see how it is,” Dave stands up. “First you don’t want my cape, then you don’t say it’s nice to see me, too. It’s mad disrespect up in here.”

You hold back a laugh and instead perform something of an amused snort. You cover your mouth.

“I believe that goes without saying.”

His lip twitches ever so slightly in the smallest hint of a coy smile, but he collects his notebooks and writing apparatus nonetheless.

“Whatever, I know when I’m not wanted,” he states in a tone that denotes more entertainment than irritation. “Besides, I don’t wanna hang out and third wheel anyway.”

Rose’s eyes bulge a little at this and her lips purse a bit more tightly than before.

“Later,” Dave gives a halfhearted salute and makes for the exit.

“I wasn’t intending to clear the room,” you offer something of an apology.

“It’s okay,” Rose shrugs. “I could use some company, anyway. That is to say, company that isn’t extended periods of silence punctuated by mediocre beat boxing and asking me for my opinions on rhyming schemes. Especially with his uncanny ability to somehow detect the exact moments I feel like I’m really making some headway in understanding this literature.”

Literature? Your ears perk up at this.

“What are you reading?” You ask, hoping your tone conveys the appropriate levels of curiosity. You’d hate to come off as nosy, after all.

“Oh, just some Alternian novels someone left out. I have to admit, the illustration on the cover is a bit tantalizing. I’m sure you could be of some assistance with this, though I was initially reticent to ask for your help. I don’t want to take up all of your time,” she leads you back over to the plush couch where she left the book.

“I don’t mind,” you let her know as you follow her to sit down.

Instantly you recognize the cover art and have a private moment of enjoyment in your mind as you chastise Karkat. He really should be better about leaving sordid material laying about. You’ve read it as well, and know it to be a particularly racy tale involving a bronze blood in an ever vacillating relationship with a sea dweller, but little does he know, the sea dweller is in another relationship with a rust blood and they are caught between red and black romance as well. You’re unsure if Rose’s investment in translating is strictly educational.

“It’s posing a fairly tremendous challenge to translate from Alternian considering I don’t have a tutor, and very little sources to give me a good grounding in the ways of self teaching,” she explains.

“Are you familiar with the context of this particular book?”

You’re still, of course, willing to help her with her reading material. However, you feel a bit shy about laying out the grammatical basics in this particular context. Rose averts her glance and clears her throat.

“I can gather some context from the artist’s depiction,” she says calmly, but something sly writes across her face.

You and Karkat often exchange books, and often they are of this type of nature. Your tastes aren’t identical, and you each have your preferences. But in these times, you’re grateful for the entertainment. There’s certainly no reason to feel flustered or embarrassed, you think, but the two of you rarely if ever actually discuss the content in the books beyond vague notions of enjoying certain scenes or favoring certain characters. You absolutely never talk about them from an educational standpoint. You feel a bit uneasy about this, and you suspect Rose can detect it from your body language. It’s been probably a long pause since you’ve spoken.

“Maybe,” you start carefully, “I can read this one to you.”

“Really?” Rose turns her head quickly, clearly not expecting this response.

“Yes,” you feel a bit more agreeable now that you’ve committed to being helpful. “Alternian written language is a bit nuanced. It might be a more fruitful endeavor to start with something more basic, such as the alphabet. Once you master spelling things out, we can move on to translating something with more complexity. If your short term goal is to read this book, I can read it aloud to you.”

“So why did you really come out here,” she quirks an eyebrow at you, a bit more cunning now that you’ve lost some headway in the perpetual game of mind chess you’ve been engaged in with her.

“It certainly was not to find myself chipperly agreeing to read you a smutty novel,” you edge back only slightly on the snark.

She lets out a short and crisp chuckle, but it’s good natured and there’s a coquettish glimmer in her eyes.

“Then why?”

“Karkat is upset.”

She laughs again, but this time it’s dry, erring on sarcastic.

“Color me surprised,” she clucks. “What’s got him riled up this time?”

“I don’t know,” you say, because, well, you don’t know.

That might be a question best answered by the other troll. So you decide to skip back about half a perigee and be the other troll.

Your name is Karkat Vantas and it’s a little too warm on this meteor, if anyone were to ever ask your opinion on things.

The room is dim, and that suits you just fine, but your pump biscuit is lodged firmly in your meal chute and pounding away in what feels like a jailbreak attempt. You’re acutely aware of your breathing and a cramp is forming in your left arm from the uncomfortable pose you’ve got yourself stuck in. Your useless overworked think pan is firing off the charts as you force your leg to stop bouncing with anxiety. 

Your husktop sits on the table in front of you, playing a movie you’re hardly paying attention to because it’s not only at least the 12th time you’ve seen this one but because you weren’t even the one who wanted to watch it in the first place.

Maybe the weight of your companion on your lap explains why you’re feeling overheated. Maybe it’s the stress you’re unnecessarily giving yourself over it. He’s breathing steadily and you try to match pace but your goddamn blood feels like it’s made of lava and you’re probably going to hyperventilate. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re wearing an extra thick sweater even though it’s hotter than a puckered asshole while jogging through a sauna in here. Why the fuck is it so hot?

You try to pay attention to the movie to no avail. You could recite this word for word, you’re sure, if you could concentrate. You breathe out a long, shaky breath and hope that by the time the last of the air passes your chapped lips you’ll simply evaporate along with it. 

But actually… you don’t want that. Despite this obnoxious feeling in your guts, a twisted part of you is actually really enjoying yourself. The awful feeling you’re experiencing is your nerves acting up, but fuck if you’ll admit that to yourself or anyone else. You command yourself to stop giving you the emotional reach around. The old mental in and out. Why the fuck are you thinking like this. The urge to yank out your own hair overwhelms you, but you can’t even do that. Again, your arm is in a weird bunched up position and you more importantly don’t want to jostle the delicate situation literally laid out before you.

Okay maybe you can lower your arm, just a little. It’s sort of picturesque, isn’t it? Lounging, ever so languidly on the couch, with a companion draped across your lap in a moment of vulnerability. It’s normal. It’s perfectly fucking normal to cuddle. You like cuddling! It’s normal, you repeat to yourself ad nauseum. 

But it’s not normal. Something is amiss. You don’t know what your fucking problem is.

You force your pump biscuit back down where it belongs with a heavy gulp. Your arm starts to go numb and you decide to succumb to both a curious desire as well as the physical need to relax your muscles. Slowly, cautiously, you lower your hand. It’s a precision maneuver, executed with extreme care and deliberacy. 

Finally you land on your mark. Your clammy hand makes contact with a peaceful shoulder draped in soft red fabric. You hold still for a moment, cursing your boldness and hoping you haven’t disturbed the peace. He sighs in his sleep and you respond in kind. Mission fucking accomplished, you’ve made contact, you absolute sack of shit. 

Through this whole situation, he’s caused you an insufferable level of grief and you bear a great deal of resentment for the inconvenience. And yet, you feel a bit content here and harbor some confusing feelings of protectiveness. You dare to indulge yourself and give the shoulder in your grasp the most gossamer of squeezes. Fuck, there goes your blood again.

It feels like it’s bubbling, coursing upwards through your veins like a freshly cracked fizzy swill beverage, warming your cheeks in a frustrating mixture of infuriation and pleasantry. Your thumb acts of its own volition and rubs delicate circles onto the fabric while your stomach churns. Only upon feeling how content your companion feels beneath you do you notice your muscles are all working overtime and you’re as tense as you are sweaty. You’re angry at yourself for the constant sighing, yet you heave another one and hope it’ll trick your stupid body into relaxing on the exhale. Leaning deeply into the couch, you finally allow yourself a fleeting moment of comfort.

This isn’t how you expected to feel. This isn’t how you wanted to feel. This isn’t how you imagined things going. In fact, you never in all your wildest dreams tucked snuggly away in the comfort of your recuperacoon imagined this would ever be a situation you would face. You’re watching a horrible buddy cop flick with a sleeping alien in your lap. And you’re trying to enjoy yourself, damnit. 

You ease into the motions and try not to berate yourself too much. It feels intrinsically good. And yet, you feel some uncomfortable blend of delight and anger, fear and complacency, giddiness and the urge to vomit all over your sweater. His curled up leg twitches a little in his sleep and a fat bead of sweat tickles its way down your posture pole. You want to laugh and cry at the same time. 

One final sigh, and you promise yourself this is the last one. They’re not even really sighs anymore, but rather it’s more like you’re snorting and puffing unidentified emotional constipation out your nostrils. Your hand slides down past the shoulder, offering little squeezes along the human musculature as you glide until it comes to pass the elbow. Then you pull back up much in the same way. You’re doing something weird. You’re being weird. You’re doing something between a tender caress and a creepy grope and it’s weird. 

An urge tempts you to brush some of the strange pale hair off his face to give you a better view of his facial features as he sleeps, and you’ve all but forgotten the drone of the decidedly unfunny movie playing on your husktop. It’s so very, very tempting but the slightest incorrect action could ruin everything. He could wake up and catch you groping him and then you’d probably die instantly on the spot. Or worse yet, you’d live indefinitely and never be able to face another living being ever again and you’d spend the rest of your wretched waking days agonizing over the horrendous fact that you’re a creepy little pervert who got caught groping a sleeping dude.

But you’re not groping him, you’re caressing his arm affectionately and generally being extremely considerate by keeping him safe and comfortable while you protect him from the aggravations and nuisances of the outside world. And you know what? He should fucking thank you for it, the ungrateful bulgesniffer. He won’t, though, and you won’t address it, either. Partially because you’re a pathetic fucking coward, and partially because you’re a twisted freak who’s kind of getting off on this.

You’re a nasty mess. You should probably skip forward about half a perigee and be the other guy.

You’re Dave Strider, and you’re cool as a fucking cylindrical green gourd. Wait, what? Why did you say that. A cucumber. You’re as cool as a cucumber.

It was probably as good a time as any to get out of the common area to stretch your legs anyway. Maybe check to see if anyone has some apple juice tucked away somewhere, even though you’ve checked countless times and you’ve been asked countless times to stop asking. Besides, what kinda guy wants to sit around and watch his hot sister mack on her alien girlfriend. You’re going to pretend that isn’t the way your brain chose to formulate that thought. 

You meander a bit listlessly through the halls, looking for a place to settle back down. Holing up in your room by yourself makes you feel like a shut in. That’s not really on brand for you. You’re half dreaming about your one true love, apple juice, and half about how to clean up your rhymes. Shit just ain’t hitting the same lately. Despite having what is essentially unlimited time, you feel like the pressure’s on and you don’t really know why.

There’s footsteps approaching behind you. You can’t whip around and seem alarmed. That’s totally not cool. So you turn in a way you hope reads as nothing short of flippant to greet the passerby. It’s spider troll.

“Sup,” you give her a flat greeting coupled with a nonchalant nod. Killed that one. Cold blooded premeditated murder, that’s how hard you killed it. Probably 5/5 hats, if that were a way to rate things.

“Hey, shades,” she shoots back. “What are you doing?”

“Nothin’,” you say, because, well, you are literally doing nothing. 

“Cool. Cool. Coooooooool,” she drags it out, like you’re annoying her somehow. “You seen Kanaya?”

For a brief moment you consider fucking with her, but ultimately decide the hassle won’t be worth it when she inevitably finds out.

“She’s reading Karkat’s gay porn in the common area.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Vriska does that weird thing where she narrows all eight pupils at you even though she only has two eyes. 

“No,” you say, because, well, you are literally not fucking with her.

You stare at each other for half a moment before you realize you’d better speak up and elaborate or else she’s gonna start yammering on and talk your ears off.

“She’s reading Karkat’s gay book about men to Rose. For real, it’s a couple of ladies on a dick date in there. They’re taking the express train to cock city in there. No stops, just straight from batting their eyelashes at each other to the final destination. Karkat’s gay dudes boning each other in sex book town. I understand I contradicted myself in saying they were going to cock city and then saying it was sex book town. This cutting commentary is still in the editing phase,” you elaborate and manage to keep a straight face despite cracking yourself up on the inside.

“Nice, thanks,” Vriska decides to ignore all your awesome jokes ripping on Karkat. “I love acting as their three wheel device.”

“Suit yourself.”

She grins in such a way that makes you think she’s completely genuine then starts off in the direction you came from. Trolls are weird and probably crazy, you decide. You briefly consider ironically giving yourself a high five for being human, but then fall into a weird train of thought about how that’s just clapping. There’s much to think about on this one. Maybe you could sling that into a rhyme.

Oh shit. Yes. Yes, yes. It’s coming to you.

_All time comes a long way around  
Still a god’s strict beneath the laws  
Solo bring it up top make a sound  
Fuck man that’s some whack applause_

Hell yeah, you definitely need to grab your pen and jot this down. You fumble with your notebook only to realize you left your pen on the table in the common room. There is no way you’re heading down a one way road back to shits and giggles dick down rumpus room featuring spider troll. New mission: find a new pen.

You change your pace from amble and set it firmly to Man-On-A-Mission. Eventually you find yourself in an obscure corner of the meteor facing a quaint little pretend town set up by your dear, sweet, sweet, precious, dear friend The Mayor. And there he is, the man of the hour, busying himself with what is surely a structurally sound building model. You love him so much.

“Hey little dude,” you approach him amicably. “You got a pen?”

He startles a bit at your arrival but then chirps and clicks in that cute little way he does.

“Yeah, good to see you too, man. You got a pen anywhere?”

He claps excitedly then hands you a can off the floor. You take it and read the label.

“Nah man, this is creamed corn. You can’t write with that wet mess. But see this?” You point to the label. “Someone had to write that on there. So by my mad set of deduction skills, I’m figuring someone’s got a pen around here.”

He looks around and eventually hands you another can. This one reads pork and beans. Not quite what you were looking for, but you could never ever stay mad at this dude. He’s a bro to the highest degree.

He fusses about his set up and makes a few gestures, seemingly to invite you to join him. Honestly you figure you could use some company and decide it couldn’t kill you to spend some quality time in Can Town. The Mayor seems ecstatic to have another set of hands on board. You don’t really know what his vision entails so you aimlessly stack a few cans until they’re at a preposterous height.

“Shit bro, that’s what I’m talking about,” you hold both your arms out to get his attention and display your little tower. “Check it out- Leaning Tower of Pizza Sauce.”

The Mayor points at it and does a little jig. Without a doubt, if you ever need an instant boost of completely unwarranted validation this is absolutely the go to guy for such needs. You don’t feel on guard with him so you crack a smile. He reaches into the folds of his post-apocalyptic tattered rags and reveals a beaten up cardboard box filled with chalk.

He selects a light blue stick and begins scribbling on the ground around your tower. A thought forms in your head.

“Hey bud, can I get one of those?”

Eagerly, he hands you the remaining chalk. You don’t have to think twice about selecting the worn down red piece and begin scrawling the rhymes on the walls before you lose track of them. This proves to be the best idea you’ve got, and you’ll have to take a picture when you’re done, then transpose it to your notebook later. Still, you lament your lack of foresight and not keeping at least five pens on your person at any given point in time like a sensible person.

You make short time of wearing down the chalk even further as you scrawl across the metal surface, carelessly writing out every thought and pausing to scratch out a few out as you go. Although, realistically, you’ve been here a fair amount of time by now. Time flies by when you’re hanging out with your favorite chess guy. He spends his time scrupulously arranging and rearranging the town layout to the will of his whims while you casually beatbox a few choice rhythms for you both to work to.

After a while though, you inevitably start talking. It’s like some Strider-only disease that forces strings of half baked thoughts to crawl out of your mouth. The more aware of yourself you become, the harder it becomes to stop. Fortunately for you, the only beans carapacians are known to spill are the literal ones when they get hungry and crack open one of their architectural structures.

“Hey, L’il Can Man,” your symptoms start flaring up. “You ever get to thinking about stuff? Not stuff like where you’re gonna put the next can, but like… where you’re gonna put yourself next.”

He turns his head to you and tilts it to show he’s listening.

“All this time here really has its ways of putting things into perspective, but also totally removing everything from reality. On the one hand it’s like oh shit we’re really here hurtling on this lightspeed rock moving towards our destinies and the ultimate goal. That’s heavy. We have all those meetings in the War Room and everything. But even then, with all this time fucking around out here doing somehow less than nothing most of the time, it feels too close to normal. Well, not normal. 

But it feels like how things used to be before the game when it was just me and my mysterious psychotic bro on Earth, and I’d spend hours and days and weeks doing essentially the same shit I am now. Watching crappy movies, playing old video games, slamming out the observational biznasty to ironically convey my disdain on everything, you know how it goes.

It’s all so normal, but nothing is ever going to be what I thought was normal ever again. And it’s hard, you know? I try not to talk about it much, but everything sucks so hard and every day is another boring reminder of how there’s never going to be that life to go back to. On the one hand I’m not complaining because who the fuck wants to go back to a fucked up apartment filled with ninja weapons and booby traps and the only reminder that I had some semblance of a guardian at all were the weekly beat downs on the roof and the occasional homoerotic puppet assaults.

But I never knew anything else, and I don’t know what to do or what to expect. It’s enough to fuck a guy up.”

The Mayor faces you now, and sits down on the floor. He crosses his legs and rests his round cheek in his palm, rapt with attention.

“I guess what I’m saying is, this is some type of existential crisis in a whacked out way none of us ever expected. I guess I can’t speak for everyone- some of them seem pretty complacent in all of this, or even like they’re hyped for it. Vriska is like maximum level power tripping about it. I mean she doesn’t really count because she’s probably clinically insane. Honestly I probably am too, but not in the way that I’m getting my jollies over daydreaming about conquest every waking second we spend drifting around out here. I’m talking more like… Man. I think I’m lonely.

But that feels like some horseshit to even say because for the first time in my life, I’m surrounded by people who act like they give a shit about whether I live or die. And that fucks me up even worse because I don’t know how to handle that. It’s heavy. And we come full circle, reaching all the way back around to the long and hard of it. 

I feel like I can’t even talk about these feelings because they’re soap opera levels of ugly emotions coughed up by a jackass. Nothing worse than seeing a cool and handsome dude such as myself crying about his school girl drama camp feels jams.

Do you ever feel like you have no one to talk to, little man?”

He tilts his chin thoughtfully for a moment and you really feel like he’s trying his damndest to truly pick up what you’re laying out. He makes a few polite and prudent clicks to himself, then looks up at you brightly. His arms extend in invitation to the world's most brodacious, brolific embrace of your brohood. 

It’s an all-time bro of bronafide affection up in this piece. No need to feel bronely in the little can neighbrohood with just you and the little mayor. You feel a strictly no hobro bronnection as you tenderly cling to him. The Bropocalypse looms ahead but in this moment you share a moment of serenity and maybe, just maybe, everything will actually be okay. You can veritably feel the presence of Broback Brobama and Abroham Lincoln’s spirits watching over you, holding hands and giving you a meaningful nod of approval.

You decide that’s enough ironic bro bullshit and genuinely hug your chess guy friend.

“I love you so much, dude,” you gush to him and squeeze his torso.

He squirms affectionately in your arms as you plant kiss after shamelessly sweet little kiss on his shiny black cheeks.

“Oh hell no, you’re not getting out of this,” you say with a laugh in your voice and hold him in place.

He trills and whistles under your assault and you play wrestle together while you gratuitously express your adoration for him.

“What the fuck, are you making out with the mayor?”

Your head whirls around at the familiar irascible voice abruptly scorning you from the room’s entrance.

“No,” you professionally close yourself off to a deadpan. “Why, Karkat, you jealous?”

“What?! NO!” Karkat stamps a foot to punctuate himself.

“I dunno, man,” you startup your usual volley with him. “You look pretty hot and bothered about it. Can’t stand the sight of the mayor on the receiving end of some of my steamy bro loving?”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” he spits. “I’m completely mortified that such a dignified politician has to deal with being assaulted by a bulgelicking nookstain.”

“Assault? Not a chance. I won’t stand for that blown outta proportion slander. Does this look like a man assaulted?”

You wrap your arms as tightly as they’ll go around the mayor and he leans up to nuzzle your cheek. You remain in steadfast eye contact with Karkat. Years of practice give you the edge and you remain virtually expressionless while his lip quivers and his eyelid twitches. The impending rupture of a blood vessel in his yellow sclera looms closer. 

He splutters and loses vantage in this suddenly unspoken challenge of wits. You hold the high ground, seeing as you’ve remained unmoved, unbothered, and generally unseen despite having just spilled your guts to a carapace man. You don’t know what he’s doing down on this end of the meteor, but you’re wise enough to know asking will result in a tantrum. Or an insult. Or some other noncommittal response. Better cut him off.

“Wanna hang out in this most prodigious of can towns?”

“Are you fucking yanking my shame globes right now.”

“Are you propositioning me?” You chuckle at his expense. “That’s pretty forward, Karkat. You might want to wine and dine me first before I go in for any of your homoerotic fantasy shenanigans.”

“What the fuck, Strider? Are you as blindingly stupid are you are ugly? It’s a goddamn turn of phrase, you ignorant fuck. I’m not even going to address your alarmingly bizarre hangups on whatever it is with humans and homoeroticism, which isn’t even a thing!”

His cheeks glow red with frustration and embarrassment. That’s exactly the type of reaction you wanted and you love to see it. A smarmy little sort of satisfaction washes over you and you allow for your poker face to crack, if only just a little. He lowers his shoulders a bit and turns his face away.

“Besides,” he continues, failing to cover up his frustrations. “What kind of pathetic delusion are you living in? This is a daydream factory for crotchstaining wrigglers.”

“No way,” you contest him immediately. “The mayor is taking Can Town to all kinds of expansive territories. Manifest Destiny and all that noise.”

“Not with this abject disgrace of an excuse for urban planning. This place looks like the idiot festival came to town and pranced around the place with one hand around their bulges and the other covering their eyes while they kicked random bullshit around, singing joyously about how much they love fuckwhiffing each others’ stench.”

“Why, you think you could do better?” You raise an eyebrow. “I think it looks dope as hell in here.”

“Shows what you know,” he snorts and indignantly stamps across to the miniature city center. “See? Look here. You’ve got a communal hive stem right next to a religious gathering cylinder with no zoning for parking. That’s just a structural aneurysm waiting to happen.”

You nod in agreement and watch him move a few cans around.

“If you move the religious gathering cylinder over towards a more private end of town, we can open up this area so all the residents can adequately store their four wheel devices,” he states definitely.

“You’ve got an eye for this shit,” you compliment him genuinely, yet he still eyes you somewhat suspiciously. “Got any other suggestions?”

He takes a thoughtful pose and cups his chin as he takes a survey of the area.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

With a surprising lack of hesitation, Karkat takes to task starts adding a few additions here and there. The mayor scrambles and claps with glee with every expansion and improvement. In all sincerity, he really does have a knack for this. You follow him around holding a stack of cans so he can easily reach for new materials as he let’s the creative juices flow.

“Unh, check, check it,” you start to spout a little creativity of your own.

Karkat remains dutiful to his role as the new unofficial urban planner of Can Town.

“Vantas pulls in gonna mix it up,  
Old school, real deal, needs a tune up.  
Beats strict, I’m a god of the slamdown  
Clean streets, he’s the king of the Can Town.  
Mean streak, Karkat keeps it fresh and surly,  
He likes  
Man meat, never scoring with the girlies-”

“Strider?!” Karkat nearly shrieks. “Can you not fucking serenade me with insults through slam poetry? Do you even understand how that comes off, you fucking sicko?”

“Whatever,” you shrug. “It’s just a rough draft.”

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath and snatches a can from your arms.

“Go be useful and set up a residential area over there. How do we manage to have a town in the works and next to no hives set up? Make sure to leave enough room for some spacious lawn rings,” he barks the orders at you.

“Yes sir, Mr. Vantas, sir,” you over exaggerate your enthusiasm to rile him up further.

You pick up a plain piece of white chalk and head to the vague area he commanded you to tend to. And that’s when you think of something really funny. You start by drawing two parallel lines on the ground. 

“Karkat, can you check this for me?”

He reluctantly heads over and stands above your innocuous lines.

“This looks big enough for a residence, right?”

“Hmm,” he considers it for a moment. “Maybe extend it a little longer.”

“Of course you’d want it longer,” you chuckle at his expense and draw the lines further out.

This is gonna be so good. 

“What the fuck did you say, you insubordinate prick?”

“Nothing, nothing,” you wave it off. “Now, okay, see, I’m thinking at the end of the street, turn it into a cul-de-sac. You know, for privacy and a safe place to raise the kids and all the wholesome shit.”

“That’s actually a good idea, Strider,” Karkat nods in approval as he watches you draw something of a stylized bulb to close off the street. 

“Yeah, and we’ll add a crosswalk here too, right before the street formally leads into the cul-de-sac,” you draw a little line demarking what is obviously the head from the shaft.

“That’s pretty insightful,” he muses, crotchety demeanor all but dissolved. “But what do we do with the other end of this street?”

“Oh, I’m way ahead of you, dude,” you crabwalk a few steps down to the end of the ‘street’ chalk in hand already raring to go.

“I’m listening,” he watches you draw in sincere earnestness.

“I’m thinking the whole end can be a community center, extending out on both sides,” you explain, blatantly drawing a ballsack. “See, on this one end we can have a swimming pool, and the other can be like… I dunno, a grassy knoll.”

“Oh, the wrigglers will love that,” he says in hushed awe, eyes glimmering as he watches you scribble pubes on the ‘grassy knoll.’

You stand up and admire your work. You watch as the realization slowly dawns on him. His face contorts as he experiences an undoubted buffet of emotions, and you eat up each and every one. It’s shock for the amuse bouche, followed by a tasty little embarrassment appetizer, giving way to a savory helping of anger as the entree, and concluding the whole affair with the most decadent of desserts served as crushing defeat.

“That’s a human bulge, isn’t it,” he finally states rather than asks.

“It would seem it is,” you agree, silently basking in your win.

There’s something decidedly more fun and alluring about fucking with Karkat more than anyone who ever was or probably ever will be.

“Every interaction with you is a personal hell in extremes I never could have dreamed up in my most horrific nightmares,” Karkat exhales the words with no fire left behind them.

“Well,” you give him a cheerful clap on the back in response. “I’m bored of this now.”

He looks like he’s far away in some deep recess of his mind.

“I think I’m gonna head back to my room and play some video games. You in?”

He just stands there, despondent. What, did you actually break Karkat?

“Dude, Karkat. It’s just a dick. You love drawing those. You draw those all the time,” you continue your lighthearted teasing. “Remember that one time? You were all ‘No Dave, I don’t care how much your sexy sister values this huge book, I’m gonna draw throbbing boners all over it anyway!’ And oh, the laughs we all had.”

“That isn’t a thing that happened,” he retorts, slowly returning from the shock of your absolute ownage.

“No, I’m pretty sure that happened,” you toss back, and run a little circle over his back for good measure.

He swats your hand away but you grab his wrist in response. You don’t engage in too much horseplay, just a little bit to try to rile him back up again.

“So,” you lead him again. “You coming with?”

Karkat looks like he’s suddenly trapped in deep thought. He gets like this sometimes. It can be a real pain in the ass to try to read the mood when he’s like this. He’s probably the only one who knows what’s going on in his weird little mind.

Probably the best way to understand what’s going on in that flaming wreckage is to decide to be the troll.

Now you’re Karkat again, and everything is awful.

The last handful of days have been an absolute whirlwind of mixed signals and emotional constipation. You don’t know what to make of your situation and there’s a persistent hammering in your chest. It’s shredding your wretched thinkpan. 

You don’t have a clear visual memory of how you ended up back in Dave’s respite block. It’s a blur of conflicting emotions and strained confusion. He’s been toying you around and you think he might be somehow oblivious to the constant blackrom flirtations. 

He’s like some kind of cretinous spongedead dickscratcher that you can’t get away from. You don’t know how that makes you feel. Even worse, your toes are equally dipping in and out of the waters of flushed romance as well, and he’s a cuddle hungry vomit inducing heart throb.

Even worse yet again is that neither of you have yet to make any discernible moves. ...Well, that’s not entirely true, either. There have been plenty of unspoken moments of blatant pale solicitations. 

You ponder on the possibilities if it’s even feasible to vacillate between three quadrants, especially if you are not formally committed to any of them. You wonder if any of these considerations have entered Dave’s thoughts. You doubt it, seeing as he almost seems to revel proudly in ignorance of this aspect of your culture. That somehow makes you even angrier.

For now, though, you sit on the couch to Dave’s side. A belligerent little voice in your head robbed you of whatever remaining dignity you had and said, ‘You know what Karkat? You don’t suffer enough. You should definitely go hang out with Dave and fall into even more stroke inducing emotional conniptions. No, really! It’ll be great this time. Without doubt, subjecting yourself to the same catastrophes over and over again is good for your mental health. Recommended, even! Stupid fucks like yourself absolutely require at least the minimum dosage of self sabotage on the daily.’

You listened to your inner saboteur and traipsed down the hall after that asshole in his red polyester pajamas. You glided through the passageways torn between feelings of aggression, feelings that make you feel light on your feet, and hopeful feelings that you might get a shot at redemption on your pathetic failed attempts at cuddling.

Since your internal thoughts had been busy with duking things out in your addled head, you almost forgot the intention was to come back to his respite block to play video games. He’s got some primitive game set up on the screen. A tiny human man flips around the screen on a four wheeled platform.

“Tony Hawk is sick as fuck,” he assures you and settles back with the controller. “The only problem is it’s a one player game. So I’ll teach you the ropes, then you can play.”

“Fine.”

You curl your legs up to your chest and close yourself off, paying only the slightest attention to the Tony Hawk human on the screen. Your thoughts churn once again into other matters. It’s a cyclical pattern. First you agonize, then you ruminate, then you regret, then you agonize once again.

What the fuck has happened to you? You’ve always been anxious, unsure, and a bit overly sensitive, but this is chartering unknown territory. All this free time is fucking with you. You steal a glance over to Dave.

He’s splayed out a bit, legs spread wide and arms draped lazily on his lap as he handles the controller. He seems focused on the shitty game, completely unbothered by anything else. You used to think he was the stupid one, but you’re starting to suspect in the most thrilling twist of this space journey that you’re the stupid one after all.

“Oh shit, landed that sweet kickflip,” he boasts.

“Yeah,” you agree.

You steady your breath and decide he’s never going to make a move, so you may as well go for it. It’s not some grand gesture, though. That would be too bold and you’re not trying to look like some desperate nook starved quadrant slut. No, instead you scoot closer to him to bridge the gap. Your thighs press flush together and you still the clamoring sensation jolting through all your limbs. He replies with the same unreadable expression on his face and a small glance.

“Ready for your turn?” Dave asks, and somehow the perfectly reasonable question startles you shitless.

Probably more aggressively than necessary, you snatch the controller from his hands.

“Okay,” he starts, clearly unperturbed by your action. “Just remember what I told you.”

You weren’t listening to whatever he told you. But this game looks like such a piece of shit, you assume you'll figure it out with ease. You press a button on the control pad and the Tony Hawk man proceeds forward. See? Easier than pushing a load through your waste chute.

“Okay good, now jump when you get to that upcoming ramp.”

You don’t know how to jump. The little man approaches the ramp and beefs it, face planting into the ground.

“You missed the queue. That’s okay, you’re new to it,” Dave shrugs. “Just try it again.”

The glitchy pixelated Tony Hawk human approaches the ramp once again. Dave leans forward against you and moves to press the correct control button for you as you handle the controller. He uses his free hand to balance by pressing it into your thigh. You’re distracted again. The warm weight of his palm on your thigh stirs something unusual inside you. You love it as much as you hate it and everything in your head spins. Your breath hitches but you fight to squash it down. Not now. You’re not going to act like a little freak right now.

“Awesome, just like that. Double tap next time to make him grind down the rail.”

You wish he wouldn’t say words like grind with his hand pressed into your leg. Alarms go off in your head and you frantically try to force yourself to act normal. Please be normal, please oh please be normal. You’re just two guys hanging out together playing video games. 

You’re sitting here, doing a normal thing. You’re watching the little man operate the four wheel platform while your friend’s hand remains warm and pleasant and comforting on your upper thigh. It doesn’t even have the decency to be some platonic area like the knee. Oh no, god for-fucking-bid that. 

You steel yourself and by some stroke of dumb luck you manage to double tap the button and send him grinding down the rail. Dave gives a whoop of excited approval and squeezes your leg, face glued to the screen. You’re pretty sure he isn’t even aware of what he’s doing.

Time stands still and in this moment there’s nothing else in the world. It’s only you, Dave’s grip on your thigh, Tony Hawk, and the cruel, unrelenting gaze of an uncaring god.

And then you snap.

“I can’t fucking do this,” you blurt out.

Unceremoniously, you toss the controller into his lap. He’s baffled, and you can tell as much by the singular raised eyebrow poking out about his signature aviators. He shifts back and finally releases your leg from the hostage situation.

“No way, you killed that last stunt,” he retorts.

“No, Dave,” you jump to your feet and your arms begin doing that unbecoming thing where they gesture vaguely. “I can’t do this!”

“S’cool,” he shrugs it off. “So you’re not into pro-skateboarding antiques. We can play a different game. Your choice.”

Your body betrays you and you embarrass yourself further. Your mouth hangs open in shock at him and disgust at yourself. He’s playing it way too cool and you’re moments away from clawing your own face off. 

“No!” Your voice sounds shrill in your own ears. “I can’t do this! I’m not going to sit here like a bulgebiting chump and do… This!”

These seem like the only words you can manage to spew at him. And he just sits there. Unresponsive. What the fuck are you supposed to do with that? You’re riddled with anxiety and uncertainty. You want more, yet you want less. You want soft, yet you want harsh. You want none of this at all. You don’t know what this is. Your head feels hot, yet your hands feel cold. 

You’re freaking out. You’re hyperventilating. You’re in a state of panic. You’re vulnerable, you’re blazing, you’re seen in the worst ways, you’re impassioned, you’re scared. Your eyes dart around the room frantically, and yet Dave still sits in place unmoving.

“Okay,” he finally speaks up. “I know it’s like, the Vantas brand to have a complete over the top meltdown every once in a while but this feels a bit extreme over a shitty video game. You good, dude?”

There’s a painfully long pause.

“Long day,” you manage to force out in a croaky voice.

“Word,” he pats the spot next to him on the couch. “Wanna lay down?”

“Yes,” your body feels tense. “I mean. No. I mean, yes. I think I need to go.”

And then, before you can even process your own actions, you abscond. You bolt out the door to Dave’s respite block and you’re running. Your legs take you down the halls and through the corridors. It’s aimless. You’re lost both in body and spirit. You’re a fucking loser. You’re lower than trash. You’re a festering puddle of discharge. You’re ruining the only good thing you have going on this god forsaken meteor blasting its way into what is likely your upcoming and certain doom.

This is a new low. You hate yourself.

Somehow you end up in front of Kanaya’s block. You growl and pound at the door, demanding entrance. It gives way and you burst forth in a storm of every pent up feeling you’ve been burying for perigees on end. You’re ready to hash it all out, right here in the now.

Only, her room is empty. She’s not here. All your spite and fury dwindles down into something smaller as you gasp to catch your breath. You pause to take in your surroundings.

There’s a neat pile in the corner of the room where she sleeps. A modest desk with a few books. A discarded sewing project she was tending to earlier in the day. The only thing absent is your friend herself. And you feel even smaller.

Before you can contain yourself you fall to your knees and you openly sob. You’re swept up in this moment. It’s a flurry of pain and yearning and self loathing. You’re frustrated and you can’t pinpoint exactly why you’re struggling so deeply and so genuinely.

Hot tears pour freely down your cheeks. Your fists ball up and pound against the floor. You thrash and you scream and you wail. Everything feels like too much and not enough all at once. Every organ in your expendable body feels like it might give and cave in on itself. 

Each howl you belt out echoes back to you in the otherwise silent room, as if to remind yourself this is your own fault and your own undoing. You ride out the rest of your agony in solitude, and you eventually wear yourself out. It should feel better, and in some ways it does. But you don’t feel good.

There are no more tears left in your dried up husk. No more wails, no more dry heaves. You suppose you should be grateful this happened alone and at least you can save the measliest fraction of face. You wipe your ugly little snotty nose on your sweater sleeve.

You pace around Kanaya’s respite block in flippant repetition. Eventually you come to the realization that you should leave. If she returns while you’re still in here, you’ll probably scare her off. Everyone has their limits, and seeing as even you don’t want to deal with your sorry ass right now, you don’t want to risk putting off your only remaining best friend and making her hate you too.

After a couple more thoughtful laps around the block, you make a decision. You stop at her desk and find a piece of paper. Kanaya is a very sensible person, so she always keeps at least five pens on her at all times, plus several back ups at her desk. You grab one, pause for a few moments to think, and then scratch out a note.

Upon exiting her block, you close the door much more considerately than the way you opened it. You stick your note against it and let out a ragged breath. It’s time to shamefully slink back to your own place and hopefully sleep away all the shame and embarrassment you’re harboring.

You have no idea where Kanaya is. You suppose you’ll just have to be her again.

You’re suddenly Kanaya again.

You feel emotionally wiped out, but that isn’t anything new to you. A lot of people ask a lot from you every day, so why should today have been any different. It’s nice to feel needed, even if at the end of the day your capacity consistently finds itself capped out. 

All is well, though. You’ve enjoyed a mostly pleasant day which led into a mostly pleasant evening. You say mostly of course, because… well, maybe you’ll get into it later. For now, you’d like to simply enjoy some well earned private time and let your think pan relax into a carefree mush.

Heading back to your block is always a refreshing walk. The halls are quiet and that suits you just fine. You’ve always enjoyed that your respite block is located a bit of a reach away from the common area. It ensures that, usually, the likelihood of being disturbed during your peaceful time is greatly diminished.

You’ve already been interrupted once today, so you’re feeling confident nothing but calm and quiet will greet you upon your return and you look forward to collapsing into your pile for some much needed recuperation. 

Naturally, this presumption leads to shock when you reach your door and discover a note taped to it. You frown. Discoveries such as these tend not to bode well. You reach into your pocket and tentatively grip your tube of lipstick. Your eyes narrow and your lips press into a thin line. The note is plainly addressed to you. Wait, you recognize the large blocky letters of the penmanship. You breathe a sigh of relief when you realize you’re not in any danger. But then, you gasp when you realize he might be.

You kickstart your built in flashlight system to better shine some light in the dim hallway and mentally steel yourself. You exhale and open the note and begin to read. The message is shorter than you imagined it might be. In large print it says simply as follows.

“SORRY FOR BEING BORN A FUCKING IDIOT.”


	2. En Garde and Parry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karkat slowly but surely works through some of his emotions and Kanaya works through some of Rose's clothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little slower on the updates than I'd like! But, they're fairly meaty so I hope that makes up for it.
> 
> As always, check the tags since they will update with each chapter addition.
> 
> Thanks for checking it out!

Your name is Rose Lalonde. 

You’ve found yourself bright and early in the common area once again. The room is chilly but the coffee warms you up. The taste is revolting but you get through it by attempting to convince yourself that it is character building. As if you need more of that, at this point.

The company is nice this morning. That’s a joke, of course, as you’re all alone. You could do an acrobatic pirouette through the room and no one would be any the wiser. The notion puts a smile on your face. You’re not much of an athlete so you opt not to perform any ridiculous feats for the time being.

Instead, you spend the early morning hours before anyone else has woken up in a more typical way. You simply bask in the solitude. Reminiscing on the night prior, you attempt to calculate your next move. It’s likely a futile endeavor, though.

You’ve been dancing in an elaborate waltz with Kanaya for months by now. You make a move, then she steps to the side. She advances, and you step back. Eventually someone will have to lead and pull in for a turn and then dip. You scramble at every encounter to retain the lead but each time you come out ahead something stalls and you falter. In response Kanaya will gain ground, but then similarly stutter. The pair of you have managed to coalesce in a perpetual roundabout.

It’s frustrating.

It isn’t as though you don’t want to progress your relationship. On the contrary, in fact. The issue remains that you don’t seem to know how. You’re quite accustomed to having the answers, or at least pretending to. And failing those options, you’re adept at learning. In your handful of years of existence, however, you have yet until now been put in a position to understand how to take the next step in a relationship with an alien.

Some things come naturally. It’s easy enough to hold her hand, to kiss her, to cuddle. Honestly those things aren’t that easy for you, either. But by a far and wide margin they’re much easier if only by virtue of the fact that you at least understand how to perform those actions. Thinking beyond that puts you in a stalemate.

There are words and names for certain parts of anatomy that you know and understand quite well thanks to Karkat’s foul mouth. But beyond the lexicon, the form and function of any and all else remains elusive. It would be too embarrassing to outright ask her how exactly her body works. And likewise, you’re grateful that Kanaya has enough tact to not directly ask you, either.

And so you find yourself plotting and scheming once more, reflecting and engrossing yourself in thought. Certainly there must be some abstract way to garner the information you seek. There are dozens of dirty books littered about the place that must absolutely pertain to the knowledge you’re after. If only in school you’d opted to take Alternian language courses rather than French, you wouldn’t be in this predicament.

But alas, your school’s curriculum did not not accommodate for unheard of xenomorphic languages. 

Despite your best efforts to come up with a better plan, you only have so many tools available to you. With your options to beat around the bush or risk a highly unpropitious scenario, you continue to play your game and get down to alien genital sleuth work.

One might assume that Kanaya would have the upper hand this round. She is, after all, bilingual and could quite easily make the same move that you do. However, neither you nor Dave have a particular penchant for erotic romance novels so neither of you have any reading material on that particular subject for her to investigate.

You thought you might make some headway in your educational conquest last night with your reading date, but there had been no such luck. Kanaya proved true to her word and read you the entirety of Karkat’s book to you. In fact, you had a pleasant date night despite the fact that you were heckled by Vriska and occasionally Terezi the entire time and the additional fact that you were no closer to your goal.

As it would turn out, the book contained absolutely no sexual content whatsoever. That isn’t to say it’s not a very interesting drama, though. The tale goes into the high stakes of the various characters' forbidden relationships, the risks the main troll takes in wooing two separate trolls of different castes, and overall it is rather romantic and deals with a great deal of angst and yearning.

Kanaya informed you this was one of Karkat’s favorites. You think that’s cute. At a glance, no one might expect someone so very curmudgeonly to be so very sentimental as well.

You hum to yourself and drum your fingertips on the tabletop. 

Footsteps scrape against the floor in the nearby distance and soon your solitary hours will come to an end. Dave enters the room and sits across from you.

“Hey.”

“Good morning,” you greet him warmly.

“You’re cheery this morning,” he remarks.

“And you’re up early,” you toss back.

“What even is early in a place that has no real set concept of time? You’d think the time guy would know, but shit. Nope. Got nothing on this one,” he shrugs.

That’s fair enough. You’re not really basing your assessment on it being early on anything other than being an early riser by nature.

"I assume you had a pleasant evening," you instead veer the conversation in a less vague direction.

“It was fine,” he drops his notebook on the table and gets up to make his way to the coffee machine in the corner of the room. “I’d ask about your night but I’m not trying to wrap my mind around my sister having freaky alien sex with her girlfriend after getting all hot and bothered reading gay porn.”

“Interestingly enough that’s exactly what I’m trying to wrap my head around,” you admit.

“Gross,” Dave’s tone doesn’t come off as particularly disgusted. “Spare me the details.”

“There are no details,” you say. “We aren’t having sex.”

“Bummer.”

“Indeed.”

He returns and sits across from you and you raise your mug to clink it with his. You both imbibe and then grimace.

“Shit never gets better, does it?” Dave frowns into the chalky brew.

“It’s better than my homemade hooch,” you offer.

“Cheers, I’ll drink to that,” he raises his glass at the toast and takes another pull of the swill. “So disregarding the fact that I just asked you not to elaborate, why aren’t you guys bumping uglies?”

“Instead of answering that maybe we could delve into why you remain curiously invested in the goings on of my sex life. I wonder if we can unearth some reasoning into the depravity of why you have no qualms about keeping it distinctly unrepressed,” you propose mischievously. 

“Christ, Rose, it’s way too early for this,” he groans. 

“And here I thought we agreed that ‘early’ was an abstract and meaningless concept,” you laugh through the words.

“Here I am, bright and early, willing to be hella considerate and listen to your problems, and you roll out the shrink session schtick.”

You openly laugh now, delighting in having upended him. You gloat for a bit and then calm yourself. The moment passes and you run your finger along the rim of your glass. You’re feeling pensive again.

“To be less insincere,” you begin. “It’s probably because we don’t know what to do. Or in a better way to describe it, neither of us has enough physical familiarity with the other’s functions to understand how to engage and we are both too proud and awkward to have a frank discussion.”

Dave sits quietly and stares into his coffee. You don’t blame him. You wouldn’t know how to progress the conversation either.

“That sucks,” he eventually offers.

“It does,” you agree.

The room returns to an uncomfortable quiet. He gets through about half his cup of coffee before you speak up again.

“So how was your night?” You ask in an attempt to lighten the bizarre mood. “Did you do anything interesting?”

“It was good,” he supplies right away. “Hung out in Can Town town with Karkat, then tried to go play some video games with him but I guess he figured out the Tony Hawk games are multiplayer and was upset I only had one controller so he left. Then I worked out a few rhymes, got a little better acquainted with my bed sheets, and now here I am. It ain’t much, but it’s honest work.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately,” you note.

“I guess,” he takes another sip of coffee. “Who else am I supposed to spend time with? Murderous clown troll or murderous spider troll? Get real.”

“Well, Kanaya says you’ve been flirting with him,” you inform him.

“Whatever,” he waves a hand. “Trolls say that about everything. Maybe sometimes two people hanging out is just two people hanging out.”

“Maybe,” you tentatively agree and lean back in your chair.

“So instead of having dirty nasty troll sex, is that what you do?” Dave raises an eyebrow. “You two sit around and gossip about everyone?”

“I wouldn’t call it gossip,” you defend your girlfriend.

“Well then why is she saying I’m flirting with Karkat?”

“That sounds like the type of question you should be asking yourself, Dave.”

“Pfft,” he kicks his feet up onto the table. “Psycho babble.”

You laugh again. By now, though, you can’t help but wonder where Kanaya is right now. 

You decide to be Kanaya.

You don’t require much sleep these days so you’re up early. At least, you assume it is early because you don’t require much sleep. Time is tricky on the meteor. You’ve had some private time for reflection between now and the time you initially read Karkat’s inauspicious note. 

With very little to ascertain from the message beyond his general disdain for himself, you have very little to go on. Instead you trace back to prior discussions. Discussions is a generous word. You trace back to prior outbursts.

There may be some room to read between the lines. He clearly stated feeling as though there are no outlets for him. The notion is quite understandable- prolonged time adrift the cosmos can be an alienating experience. You often find yourself vexed with frustrations of your own.

One aspect is clear. He trusts you enough to expose even a little of his soft interior to you. You mull over the implications. You ponder his intentions. In all honesty you are hardly a suitable moirail, if that is the course he intends to solicit. Rose likely wouldn’t approve.

Nevertheless, you’re flattered that he considers you a close enough friend through it all to seek you out for comfort. You do enjoy feeling needed. If for somewhat selfish reasons alone, you decide that settles things. You’ll pay him a visit.

After some quick tidying up, you promptly dress yourself in your usual skirt and work shirt and leave your respite block. You’re wrapped up in thought on your walk and pay little mind to your surroundings. Eventually you end up at Karkat’s door and rap your knuckles against the metal.

“Fuck off!”

So he’s in there, at least.

“It’s me,” you call through the metal door.

“Oh.”

There’s some shuffling going on in there but no footsteps to indicate he’s going to open the door. You wait. Nothing happens. You continue to wait. You’re few things if not patient.

“Kanaya?” Karkat’s voice is small when he finally decides to speak up. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” you reply.

“Why?!” he eventually shouts.

“May I come in?”

Another pause.

“Fine!”

You cautiously pry the door open. He lays in a haphazard pile he has created on the floor. His body is splayed, belly up, like a starfish in some sort of pose of defeat. You feel sad and amused simultaneously.

“I received your note,” you start cautiously.

“Good to know,” he heaves his chest in a snort but remains otherwise still.

You take a tentative step towards him. His room smells a bit musty. This is likely a result from how frequently he secludes himself in here and does not properly ventilate the room. You don’t mind. It’s not malodorous, but rather simply smells like a concentrated version of Karkat. You suppose Terezi might be able to provide a more apt description, were she here. But she is not. It is only you and your deeply troubled friend.

“Would you like to talk? I can help,” you offer.

“No, I would not like to talk,” he enunciates each word tersely.

“Okay,” you agree, for now. “May I sit down?”

“Fine,” Karkat snaps, but his body language indicates no malice.

You stride across the room towards him on the pile and sit in a prim fashion next to him. It must be quite the spectacle, the contrast in your demeanors. He possibly senses this too, and rolls over into a curled up fetal position to face away from you. Your slim fingers reach out and you place your palm flat against his back. He does not resist.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“I said I don’t want to fucking talk,” he repeats himself.

You sit still, hand still placed against him, and think for a moment. Your nails scratch against his back a bit.

“Okay,” you prepare your legs to stand. “I will leave you alone, then.”

“NO!” Karkat shouts and whips around, startling you. 

You blink a few times, which is a strong reaction for you.

“No,” he says again, more softly. “You don’t have to go. You can stay.”

You saw him mouth the word please at the end, but no word came out. You feel overwhelmed with something akin to affection or pity and grace him with a tender smile.

“I’ll stay.”

Rather than stand, you instead lay back and lean into the lumpy pile. It’s rather comfortable. Karkat remains tense, though his breathing at least falls into a more reasonable rhythm. You sit in silence for quite some time and eventually scoot closer together in the pile. The silence grows comfortable too. You extend an inviting arm around him and pull him close. He rests his shoulder against your side and his chin crooks up to sit on your shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispers in a hushed tone you weren’t aware he could produce.

You hum your response and close your eyes. Sooner than you may have predicted, Karkat drifts to sleep. You quietly wish he would indulge you a bit, even if only to allow you a chance to offer consolation. Instead he breathes softly and eventually steadily, snoring in quiet purrs. You’re pinned in place, but you don’t mind. You’re not tired, but between the comfort of the pile and the warmth of the smaller body next to your own, you begin to drift to sleep as well.

Since you’re falling asleep, it’s only sensible you decide to be someone else.

Looks like you’re Dave again.

You stopped scratching potential lyrics awhile ago but you’re still stuck in place, pen still in hand. You have a problem. Rose consistently points this out in you, but you can’t stop. The pen in your hand moves seemingly of its own volition, like your hand is possessed by the lamest ghost whose only purpose in the afterlife is to haunt you and make questionable shit happen when you put ink to paper.

It’s not really like you’re making a conscious decision here, or anything. You just kinda do what feels right in the moment.

You’ve heard that like 8% of people do this, it’s not a big deal, but whatever. The disputable statistics notwithstanding, the real facts of the matter are that you can’t stop drawing dicks. All day long, you try to stop yourself but by the end of the day you’ve got droves of phallic masterpieces sketched out again. 

You try to tell yourself it’s funny and it’s ironic, but you don’t know where to draw the line. Besides, you stopped laughing a long time ago. You wish you had some kind of like, innocuous lunchbox to hide your drawings in. You thought about alchemizing one, but then you thought about how weird it would come off if you were strolling around the meteor looking like a kid on his way to school swinging around a lunchbox.

What would that conversation look like? You can see it now. Some troll or sister would roll up and be like ‘Hey Dave, that’s a sick lunchbox. What is that, Ghostbusters on the side? Dope. Hey, I didn’t have breakfast earlier, can I get a banana?’ And you’d respond with a laugh, ‘Nice guess, but no food in here. Just a massive treasure chest of cocks. Boners back to back on these pages I’ve stashed away. If you’ve come looking for a smorgasbord of dicks you’ve come to the right place.’ 

You ended up forgoing the lunchbox idea.

Helplessly, you watch your hand create an unsettlingly hyper realistic penis in true to life size across the page. There’s some delicate detail work in the veins and shading. You’d be pretty proud of this one if you weren’t also ashamed. The messed up thing is it isn’t limited to pen and paper, either. If you’re in proximity of anything that can be used to draw with and anything that can be used to draw on, in time due enough you’ll end up drawing a dick.

Rose joked and said you were possessed by a Dick Devil once when she found you drawing a bunch of little cartoon dicks on the walls. You told her it was a joke and to lighten up, but she still looked pretty genuinely worried.

Whatever.

You close your notebook and drop the pen, lest your idle hands be tempted. After a stretch and a yawn, you abandon your phallic magnum opus and leave the table entirely to join Rose on the couch. You plop down next to her with a thud and she visibly tenses. 

“So, what are you gonna do?” 

“Regarding what?” Rose asks. “If it’s regarding you, that’s been an ongoing and incurable problem for some time now and I haven’t come to a decision on what to do yet. If it’s regarding Kanaya, I don’t know yet, either.”

“Uh,” you sit up a little straighter. “Well I was wondering about the second thing but now you got me wondering about the first thing too.”

She simpers a bit and you can’t tell if she’s messing with you or not.

“Relax, Dave,” she says with that same coy smile. “Why don’t we try out a little game? I’ll be the therapist, and you’ll be the patient.”

“This shit isn’t nearly as cute as you think it is,” you frown and kick your feet up on the end table.

“Opinion duly noted,” she withdraws. “My traveling psychoanalysis booth remains temporarily closed.”

“Thank fuck,” you say. “Anyway, are you really gonna give up on just, like, hashing shit out? How long can you keep up your little charade of being on a high defense all the time?”

“I’m about to open again for business hours, Dave,” she warns. “I’m about to start asking you intimate questions about your remarkable success in relationships. For academic research, of course.”

“Hey, don’t start calling me Romeo just yet,” you quip back dryly. “That just feels like the standard. You know, two people together, and then bam. You’ve suddenly signed a contract to be open about all your shit and then fucking each other, probably. Happily ever after and have a few kids or something.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Rose wrings her hands. “It looks so easy on paper but when you’re there in the moment, it feels more natural to put up a defense.”

“Can’t relate,” you snort.

She hangs her head quietly and you both stop talking. A sense of dread washes over you as you watch her shoulders begin to quake. You bite your lip then bridge the gap and awkwardly wrap your arms around her torso. It’s really uncomfortable, but you feel bad for her suddenly and you don’t know what to say.

Rose stiffens at first then releases and allows herself to gently weep against you. You clumsily pat her back and offer a few ‘there, there’s along the way. Her display of emotion doesn’t last long. At least, not long enough to sob. In a short course of time, she pushes you away and sits up. She wipes her eyes and forces out a sigh to collect herself.

“Thank you, Dave,” she sniffs a little, but otherwise looks remarkably put together for someone who just returned from the verge of emotionally unwinding.

“Don’t mention it,” you try to lay all this aside.

“I’m really glad to have you here,” she continues. “It’s nice to have another human around sometimes.”

“Hey,” you point at her sternly, but there’s a light tone in your voice. “That sounds a lot like mentioning it, even though I literally just said not to.”

“Ha, you’re right,” she chuckles and you revel in the rarity of her saying those words. “It seems my own ploy to start picking apart other’s psyches backfired on me and I’ve had enough of the deep talks. Would you like to play Go Fish with me?”

“Sure,” you agree, since you have nothing better to do and you still feel kind of bad for her.

It’s still kind of distressing when you stop to consider yourself as Rose’s brother. Even worse so, as her technically identical twin but also technically her older brother. Most of the time you don’t, but ever since it was revealed you’ve felt this extra compulsion to do whatever you can to take care of her. Whether it’s pick her up when she falls, or hug her when she’s crying about lesbian sex problems with her troll girlfriend.

You concentrate instead on shuffling the card deck she pulled from her sylladex. Trolls basically hate anything to do with decks of cards like this- it’s some kind of lewd taboo or whatever. Playing games for babies like this with Rose feels nice. It’s nostalgic in a comforting way that kind of makes your eyes feel itchy with tears. But nah, you’re not gonna fucking cry. That’s not really your brand.

“Come on, Dave,” Rose urges you away from your rambling thoughts. “We’re not in Vegas, just deal already.”

“Don’t rush the artform,” you chide her but begin to deal anyway.

You get a few rounds into the game. She insults your integrity a few times and calls you a cheater and you squabble for a while. Obviously she’s right and she’s onto your wiles, but she doesn’t have to call you out like that. This game is some shit fresh from the bull, but you’re having fun anyway.

So much so, neither of you notice Kanaya entering the room. Then again she has that creepy vampire uncanny ability to do that even when you think you’re on your toes.

“Hello, Rose,” she greets her girlfriend, then turns to you. “And also Dave this time.”

“Ack,” you drop all your cards on the coffee table. “Damn, Kanaya, say something when you come in a room.”

“I did,” she states. “Just now. When I said hello to you both.”

Well. She’s got you there.

“Hi, Kanaya,” Rose smiles up at her and cleanly places her card hand on the table. “Sorry you had to see us playing with those.”

She swiftly captchalogues the deck back into her sylladex.

“That’s okay,” Kanaya seems unbothered. “How are you?”

“Better now,” she kisses her girlfriend’s cheek and you frown at them.

“I’m sorry I am late for our meeting,” Kanaya apologizes.

“Are you?” Rose asks. “I didn’t notice. Honestly, considering how many times I’ve made you wait I’m sure you’re well within your right to show up as you see fit.”

“Didn’t realize you two made plans,” you move to stand up.

“That would be because I didn’t tell you,” Rose says.

“That’d be why I didn’t realize.”

“Well, it would seem the mystery was solved, despite the fact that it was never truly a mystery nor did it need solving. Nice work, Dave,” Rose says with a knowing smile and a twinkle in her eyes.

“So Kanaya,” you turn away from your sister friend, choosing to ignore her snark. “What were you up to this morning? Creepy vampire stuff, I’m guessing.”

“No,” she dismisses you and apparently decides to ignore your snark as well. “I was spending some time with Karkat.”

“Oh yeah? How’s he doing,” you ask, trying not too hard to force conversation.

“Hmm,” she narrows her eyes at you. “That feels like the sort of question I should be asking you, Dave.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“You know what it means, Dave,” Rose joins her girlfriend in ganging up on you.

“And this little display right here is why I don’t hang out with you two,” you stand up and start heading for the door. “Later.”

“Say hi to Karkat for me,” Rose gives you that same irksome smile as you leave.

“Whatever.”

You do sort of wonder what he’s up to right now. Not because they said so, though. Just because you’re wondering for no particular reason and not because he’s on your mind and not because of any other reasons. You decide to be Karkat.

You’re Karkat and you’re sleeping like a kitten.

You’re still in your pile, right where Kanaya left you. You’re not doing much aside lightly snoring and drooling a bit. You deserve some rest- you worked yourself up into quite a fit and you really need to sleep this one off a while longer. Maybe you should be someone a little more active right now. Maybe you should be Kanaya again?

You’re Kanaya Maryam again, and you’re now in Rose’s respite block.

You’ve agreed to watch a new movie together. Neither of you have seen it yet until now. The reasoning primarily pertains to it not being terribly appealing to either of your tastes. But then again, you’ve exhausted all the other films available to your disposal and watching yet more reruns sounds almost worse.

Rose has her side pressed against yours as she slumps against both you and the back of the couch in her room. The television set illuminates the room to a dull, hazy yellowed tone. Explosions crash on the screen her eyes remain fixated to, but you get the impression she isn’t particularly invested. You can’t say you are, either.

Her arm previously found its way to rest upon your lap and has remained there since. Conveniently for you, it sits palm side up. Her pinkish toned palm catches your eye with its blue colored veins showing lightly through the vein. It’s so curious to you, the way the vibrancy of her strangely vibrant red blood presents itself as a cool and elegant blue through her skin.

Your hand sneaks forward and you lace your fingertips through hers. She sighs contently and nuzzles your shoulder in approval. She relaxes a bit yet jumps ahead and takes the reins after your advance. Her thumbs rubs lazy little circles against your palm. You plant a chaste kiss on the soft yellow hairs on her head. 

Rose twists her body to give her a better vantage point in response, placing her free hand along your stomach. Angling yourself in kind, you give her some space to move. She cranes her neck forward and kisses you directly on the lips. It’s a task not to nip her with your sharp teeth but you’re up for the challenge. Your mouth presses firmly to her. 

For a moment you believe you’re a step ahead of her in your game, but she pulls ahead and clasps your cheeks and draws you in deeper. Your newly freed hands now thread their way into her hair, gripping lightly as you cradle her head. 

Her tongue pushes its way into your mouth. It’s soft and wet, and not at all scratchy like your own. The sensation makes you dizzy and you lose your composure for just a moment. A soft moan escapes your mouth and slips into hers. You can't help it- it’s so forceful yet cautious, so ascetic yet so lewd.

She’s got you right where she wants you now. You’re reluctant to admit it, but you’re nearing the point where you’ll bend to her whims. Her hand crawls up the length of your torso and she grips onto your back. You aren’t expecting it when she sits upright and flings a leg over your lap to straddle you. You hold back a gasp.

Rose lowers herself to press her body against yours. Her arms fall over your shoulders and she clings to you to keep herself in place. There’s no chance you’ll regain a lead. She looks ethereal above you. Or at least you think so in the glimpses you catch of her during this increasingly heavy impromptu make out session.

Your arms wrap around her body, unsure where if anywhere to settle, and so they wander up and down the length of her back. You only pause only on occasion to handle the area around her splayed hips that folds her skin to make enticing little divots.

She notices your curious hands creeping around her upper thighs and she pulls away briefly to do a nervous giggle.

“My skirt is really riding up like this, isn’t it,” she pulls back to tug on the hem of the pale purple garment.

“I am not complaining,” you state honestly and sense your previous premonition of falling behind in the game may not come to fruition.

“Is that so,” she raises an eyebrow, unwilling to back down.

“Yes,” you agree, then falter a bit. “That is to say, yes, as in no, I am not complaining.”

“Shush,” she pulls you back in with one hand for another kiss and uses the other to direct one of your hands to cup her backside.

Rose pulls ahead once again. Your other hand follows suit and you grip either side of her soft flesh. You may not know exactly what you’re doing here, but grabbing ass is a universal constant. She is presumably in agreement and grinds down as you grope. You want to kiss her again but you have no such luck.

Instead Rose leans back and lifts the lower hem of her shirt, exposing the soft skin of her abdomen. Your breath hitches. Neither of you have ever been bold enough to undress in front of the other at this point and you can’t say you’re not feeling charged about the progression. Snarky mind games be damned.

That is, until you notice something peaking from near the center of her torso and suddenly your mindset changes course. Curiosity claims you and can’t help but help her raise her top a bit, if only to steal another glance.

“Eager, aren’t you?” Rose coos down to you, still clearly set on taking the lead.

You nod, currently not at all concerned about her gusto. You’re quite forward most of the time but when it comes to the forward momentum of the physical side of your relationship, you can gather that Rose has a few hesitations. You’re relieved she seems to want to engage further, not to mention a little exhilarated. You hold steady on your grip on her ass to brace her and she pulls her white shirt over her head then discards it unceremoniously.

The indentation is in plain view and you’re fixated. That’s not to say you’re uninterested in the rest of your girlfriend’s nearly bare form above you. Naturally, you’d love to drink in every detail and work it to your advantage. It’s only that, simply put, you’ve never seen something so familiar yet so alien on a before. You can’t seem to stop your busy hands, and a finger finds itself gently poking the spot.

“Ah,” she gasps.

She’s clearly a bit wound up and nervous, and you may have just taken the wind out of her gales. It seems the tide is in your favor through means you had not initially intended.

“Is this… a scar?”

“Um, sort of?” Rose slumps from her once evocative position into a slightly defeated one.

“May I inquire as to how you were injured,” you enunciate carefully, hoping you haven’t stumbled onto something deeply personal.

“Haha, oh my god, Kanaya,” Rose chokes out a surprised laugh. “I never considered I might have to explain this to someone.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” you apologize and feel suddenly concerned you may have ruined the mood.

“No, it’s just that every human has one. It’s called a navel,” she explains and allows for you to poke around at her like an impertinent grub. “It’s something of an effect of being born.”

You stare for perhaps a bit too long.

“Okay, maybe we should stop here for now, then,” Rose seems a little off-put and possibly dejected.

You rack your brain for some segue to reel it back in and ameliorate the situation. Rose squirms in your lap. Your hands find drop back down to her thighs. Regardless, she moves to get off your lap.

“Maybe,” the word comes out though you don’t actually agree.

Rose does not take well to unexpected defeat. She slides off your lap. Another colossal failure in your ever persisting quest towards getting into Lalonde’s skirt. You predict she’ll grab for wherever her shirt landed, so before she can clothe herself, you begin to disrobe yourself.

“You’ll notice the only demarcation I have similarly is the result of injury,” you lift your shirt halfway to reveal the scar left behind from the strike of a white science wand, even if only as a sign of solidarity.

This piques Rose’s interest and she turns back to you. Much like yours only a moment prior, her hand graces across your stomach. Her fingers trace the lines of the scar tissue.

“Does it hurt?” She dares to ask.

“It has little sensation,” you inform her.

She gives you a questioning look, then cautiously wraps her fingers in the fabric of your shirt. You can feel color and heat rising to your face. It seems you’ve given remedy to the dilemma. You sense she feels she has a hand in the game still yet, and so you lift your arms to allow her purchase while she strips you of your top. Suddenly the room feels much colder, but your face is on fire.

“Oh,” she states and looks shocked.

Something sinks deep in your stomach and a chill runs over the jade blood thumping in your veins. At times your back and forth feels like a duel rather than a dance- a wrong move can lead to injury.

“You don’t wear anything under your top,” she continues.

“I see that you do,” you gratefully swallow the unnecessary lump in your throat and gesture to the delicate lace garment adorning her chest.

“You don’t have…” Rose trails off and you genuinely find yourself perplexed and what you could be lacking.

You stare at her blankly. There’s no way to keep track of score when everything is so foreign to both of you.

“Well,” her cheeks stain to a deeper shade of pink, spreading to the tips of her ears. “I suppose it would only be fair to show you.”

She reaches behind her back and unlatches the small clothing. Its straps briefly cling to her shoulders before she allows for it to tumble to a heap in her lap. Your eyes wander and your blood pounds in your head. She shakes with nerves and exposure.

“They’re looking at me,” you blurt out before you can filter yourself.

Rose makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a cough.

“As previously stated, you don’t have these,” she moves to cover herself.

Swiftly, you brush her hand aside and touch her. She hitches her breath at your forwardness and truth be told you do as well. She’s much softer here than you expected. You graze your hand over the darker ‘eye’ on the center. It tightens upon contact and you both gasp. Your hand pulls back instinctively.

“Careful,” she chuckles softly, anxiously. “They’re sensitive.”

You purse your lips into a giddy smile. Your mind somehow races yet remains at a standstill. Testing the waters with a bit more vigor this time, you lean back in and touch her again. She shudders. You’ve never seen Rose so vulnerable and something burns with excitement inside you. The flippant unspoken contest goes temporarily forgotten. You touch her again, even more confidently. Rose bites her lip. 

Its tip entices you so you pinch it a little, relishing in the way it makes her squeal. You’re nervous and bewitched by this eccentricity all at once. 

“Kanaya, there’s the rest of the boob you’re neglecting,” Rose squirms and wheezes.

“Boob,” you repeat, though you obey and move your hand to cup the rest of her remarkably bouncy chest. “That’s a very bizarre word for your rumblesphere.”

“I refuse to dignify that comment when rumblesphere seems to be your preferred nomenclature.”

She pulls you closer to herself and presses your chests flush. It remains unclear if this is genuine or a power struggle. You look into each other’s eyes for a moment. The fuzzy light from the long forgotten television set casts a dusky glow of shadows across Rose’s features. Her pale eyelashes flutter over her half lidded eyes and your limbs suddenly feel light.

And then you’ve never felt so sure through all your uncertainty and you kiss her. Despite all the times you’ve kissed before, and you absolutely have, this feels different between you. There’s no pretense, there’s no battle of wits, there’s only you and Rose and your entwined arms.

She kisses you back, hungrily, as though she wants to take all of you in through her parted lips. You want her to take anything and everything you can give her. Her hands reach to cup your chest. It feels nice in a way you had never considered before. 

It assuredly doesn’t do for you what it clearly does for her, but it still feels nice to have her hands crawl across you wantonly. Not one to take without giving, you respond in kind by exploring her as well. Occasionally you give in to your urges and pinch and tease her. Your tongue probes along the wet, pink expanse of her mouth.

You lean into her and lay her gently into the couch. She sighs against your lips and lets you manipulate her body. You’re winning and you don’t care. Your knee presses into the couch to bear the burden of your weight to support yourself hovering above her. Despite taking precautions, your teeth clack together on the decline. You each nervously giggle on the impact.

She gives you a meaningful glance in the interim of your make out session and then gives your head a deliberate push downwards. You feel your breath catch in the back of your throat, but allow her to direct you. You’re not particularly known for giving into your nerves, and that won’t change now.

Still, the concept of using your mouth for something other than aggression remains fairly unfamiliar to you. Teeth pose a real and dangerous threat for trolls and to allow, much less encourage, anything oral is a deep sign of trust. You shake the anxiety and sentimentality and duck your head down to perform the task at hand. 

You hesitate only slightly. Rather than delve directly in, you tentatively glide your tongue over the delicate part of her rumblesphere. Rose trembles a little, as though her body is asking you to proceed. And so you do.

“Please, Kanaya,” she whispers urgently. “That’s so good.”

Spurred on by the request, you have no choice but to comply. Your teeth lightly rake against her to let her know precisely what she asks of you. Her response is favorable, so you take her into your mouth. The rest of her chest presses soft into your nose like a pillow and you let your tongue work around the stiff peak between your teeth. 

She’s openly vocal while you handle her. Satisfaction wells inside you knowing you’re drawing each gasp, each sigh, and each moan. Your limbs strain with effort to remain elevated as she bucks. You can’t help but want to tear your skirt off and expose yourself, but right now everything is about Rose. Everything about this intimacy makes your skin itch with desire and your insides ache with want.

And yet you can’t bring yourself to pull away from her. You don’t want to stop. You’re making all the moves but she’s in control. You bring your head up only for a moment to catch your breath. Rose’s chest smothers you in the most decadent way. You realign yourself and recall her previous complaint that you were ‘neglecting the rest of the boob’ so you regain some composure and plant kisses and lovebites along her decolletage.

“Kiss me,” she demands abruptly.

You waste no time and crane yourself to lock your mouths together. Her tongue takes a commanding presence, pushing past your teeth and tangles its way around your own in a feverish dance. Her heat permeates against you and it feels incredible. 

Rose pushes you away to catch her breath and suddenly you’re in a stalemate. Your eyes feast upon the side below you and your insides tangle themselves pleasantly. It doesn’t feel so bad to be at a loss.

She reaches for you and you collapse in a heap on top of her, defeated yet delighted.

“Hmm,” she coos thoughtfully and plays with your hair. “I hesitate to admit I’m unsure what comes next.”

“It would seem we are on the same page,” you admit earnestly.

She tangles herself around you and nuzzles into your neck. The movie on the tv still plays on and you resume pretending to watch it. Your chest feels full, swelling with flushed affection. She poses a challenge that you crave. It’s something you wish desperately to unlock but you’ve yet to discover the key. Perhaps patience is the key, and for now you’ll savor basking in the sickly orange glow of the buzzing television while you and she lay topless together.

You feel warm and cozy and let your mind wander as Rose delicates traces her fingers up and down anywhere she can reach. Now that you’ve come to some incomplete conclusions regarding human anatomy and reached the human achievement of Second Base (whatever that means), it might be a good time to be someone else.

You’re Karkat and you’ve finally woken up.

It has reached a point in which you have slept for so long your body refuses to stay asleep any longer. Which is to say, you’re now forced to deal with everything churning in the sack of shit you call a think pan.

You can’t decide if you feel more angry or embarrassed. You lay staring at the ceiling again, mind flip flopping. The more embarrassed you feel, the more angry you get. The more angry you get, the more embarrassed you feel. It’s as cyclical as it is stupid. Your eyebrows furrow so hard they’re at risk of fusing together in the middle.

There exist several factors you can wrap your mind around and cope with, and several you absolutely cannot. First of all, you can deal with vacillating. Obviously jumping back and forth between flushed and ashen feelings is a typical thing. Testing the waters, if you will. At some point almost everyone does it so you feel a bit of comfort from that.

Secondly, it’s just a crush. That’s also normal. Of course, it makes you feel like an insecure quadrant slut, but it’s normal. You can also deal with it because you’re shitbugging out being trapped in a confined area, and it’s not normal. Not normal is the new normal.

What you can’t wrap your head around, first of all, is why Dave. You’ve given it plenty of thought and consideration and there’s no goddamned good rationale as to why you’ve gotten yourself into an emotional wedgie over him. He’s human, he’s inferior, and you hate him for somehow miraculously forcing your hand into slam dunking yourself into a deeper and more excruciating hate spiral than you ever thought imaginable.

These kinds of feelings nearly convince yourself to settle on blackrom feelings, but as soon as you attempt to lead yourself down that road you feel uncomfortable again. That doesn’t feel right, and completely betrays every other warm and soft feeling inside you that fights against the spiteful ones.

You scrunch up your face in disgust and hope that if you force your eyes, you’ll inexplicably fall back asleep. But you’re just not tired. You’re awake and it fucking sucks. Sooner or later, you’ll have to do something about this. You’ll have to either manage to tuck this heinous situation far and deep into the vastness of your humiliating little mind where you store ugliness, or worse yet- you’ll have to have a frank and open discussion like mature fucking people.

You consider waiting for death in your pile as a viable and rational alternative.

Still, a putrid swill churns and gurgles inside you and a revolting part of you is fucked up and deranged and actually sort of looks forward to it. You daydream about skipping all the horrid parts and jump ahead to some serendipitous scenario in which everything goes really well.

It could be nice, settling down with him in some way. He challenges you, he entertains you, and despite the odds being stacked highly against your favor, you actually kind of enjoy being around him.

Bluh! You manage to choke on your own thoughts.

You rub the sleep out of your eyes and finally bring your sleep-atrophied legs to force you to stand. Unfortunately you have to at least rise to take care of yourself. You hate that. Begrudgingly, you make your way to the door. The choice is yours. You can waste time taking a shower or waste time fixing something to eat. 

You open your door and find a note taped to it. You hate finding notes taped to doors. They’re worse than finding Trollian log memos. You can’t delete a note and pretend it didn’t happen. It just exists there in your hands, mocking you. Haha, this note exists, and you can’t make believe it doesn’t exist. You have to address it, you stupid douche. Anyone who tapes a note to a door should be culled immediately upon being found out that they were inconsiderate enough to not send the message online like a normal person.

You open the note.

“hey man just checkin on you  
wondering to myself like hey been a while where’s karkat  
no homo ha  
gonna do a solo movie marathon in the common area since no one else is around  
pop some corn  
maybe build a choice fort  
probably watch every john goodman movie ever  
get real into the john goodman lore  
you should join me i guess  
kinda sucks being alone so doing that with you sounds nice  
again i cannot stress the no homo aspect enough  
later”

Immediately you crumple the note into a tiny ball and throw it aggressively to the ground. It serves as a decent representation of your feelings regarding the offer. And yet you find yourself considering it. You feel equally giddy and hateful. You pace around in a few pointless circles then stomp out the door.

You’re going to march down to the common area and blast Strider a fresh new asshole. You’re going to tell him off for constantly soliciting you. You’re done playing these stupid games for girls and grubs. You’re going to demand he cease and desist immediately.

The door slams shut behind you and you make it about halfway down the hall before you freeze. Something in your chest feels wrong about this. The mush in your head takes over. You turn about face and head back to your room.

Without much resistance to your second consideration you scramble about the room fairly quickly. You scoop up the crumpled note, smooth it out, and place it gingerly atop your desk. Then you snatch up a pillow and a blanket, not bothering to captchalog it. With just as much vigor as moments ago, you once again head towards the common area.

The sight you’re greeted with is not at all the one you’d expected. Well, you’d at least expected the computer playing movies and you’d expected the popcorn and you’d expected Dave to be alone. Okay, let’s start over. You didn’t expect Dave to be slumped over on the couch asleep.

Where the fuck is the promised blanket fort?!

You consider heading back to your respite block to get back to business and resume sulking. It is, after all, probably your third most favorite activity. But you don’t. Your eyes narrow and take in your surroundings. This looks pretty fucking sad. Your chest heaves a big sigh and you head over to the couch. 

Something akin to pity washes over you. Maybe it’s the fact that you know no one is around to judge you, but you’re feeling pretty tender about the situation before you. Your lip pulls taut on one side as you deliberate. Before the thought fully formulates you find yourself draping the blanket in your clutch over him. Just as you’re about to tuck his worthless chin in, he twitches. Your body stills and tenses.

The last fucking thing you want is to be caught red handed in a tender moment with Dave Strider by Dave Strider.

He stirs a bit then settles. With the most gossamer of touches you swaddle him a bit tighter, then so, so delicately perch next to him on the couch. You use muscles you didn’t even know you had to sit very still.

You let your eyes relax and watch the movie. You don’t have any idea how far in it has already played, and you don’t know what it’s about, but true to Dave’s word John Goodman stands positioned dead center on screen. He’s doing the bit. You know the one, where he pretends to be a good guy but is actually a bad guy and it’s this whole bit. You sneer a little, but you’re amused nonetheless and feel somehow a little more at ease. You watch for some time. John Goodman is a pus stained shit wriggler but you find yourself enjoying the movie.

A laugh escapes you, then you have just one fucking fleeting moment of self awareness and you clap your hand over your mouth. What the fuck are you doing? What in the actual fuck are you doing. You just tucked in Dave Strider and now you’re sitting here tickling your own globes watching a god awful nooksmear of an excuse for a movie, chuckling away like your think pan rotted into a putrified sludge. And Dave Strider sleeps like an ignorantly peaceful grub. 

You glance surreptitiously to the side. Please don’t wake up please don’t wake up please don’t wake up. And then he wakes up.

“Hi Karkat,” Dave mumbles the words, voice thick and husky with sleep.

“Why the fuck are you sleeping with your shades on,” you blurt out the first words that come to mind, hoping to derail any conversations before they take place.

“Part of the Strider package,” he says in the same gruff voice as he yawns and rubs some of the sleep from his eyes behind the lenses.

Fucking useless. The pair of you go quiet for a moment and your focus diverts back to the screen. You look straight at it but absorb very little of the film.

“Did John Goodman do the bit yet?” Dave speaks up to inquire after a few minutes.

“What the fuck are you talking about,” you spit out the words.

“You know,” he alludes. “The bit. Where he’s like, been tricking everyone into thinking he’s a good guy and then the twist is that he’s been fucking them all over.”

“Yes, Dave. He did the bit,” you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Nice, I guess we’re pretty far along in the flick then.” 

You catch him nearly break a smile from the corner of your eye and it makes you almost want to smile too.

“Wouldn’t know,” you shrug.

“How long have you been here?”

You don’t want to answer that, so you don’t.

“Come here,” Dave lifts the corner of your blanket draped across him.

“No.”

“Yeah, come on,” he insists, flapping it like a little bird wing. “I feel like a douche hogging all your blanket.”

“Not a fucking chance,” you repeat.

“Oh yes a fucking chance,” he continues flapping, causing an unpleasant draft.

“Will it stop you waving that thing around and wafting your revolting stink?”

“I dunno,” he flaps harder. “Only one way to find out. Prime time for figuring that shit out, in fact. Don’t hesitate, call in now for a once in a lifetime offer to redeem that kind of information. Offer ends soon, don’t wait.”

“I fucking hate you,” you snarl, but still scoot closer to allow him to drape the blanket over you as well.

“Strong words for a guy swooping in for a ride on the snuggly blanket bro express,” he teases you.

“Fuck right off.”

“Fine, no snuggly blanket for you,” he moves to take the blanket back all for himself.

“It’s my fucking blanket!” 

You grasp at it and yank it back.

“Doesn’t matter, lost your privileges. Sorry man, I don’t make the rules. I just think them up and lay them out.”

“That’s the same thing!”

You scramble and grab for the blanket.

“Damn Karkat, you’re really desperate to get in on the cuddle train. Hungrier for it than a homeless vagrant loitering outside a convenience store, hoping to get just a sniff of those roller hot dogs.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Do you just say every halfwitted load of shitlicking douchespew that enters your feeble ass rotted think pan?”

“S’cool,” Dave shrugs. “We don’t have to get all cozy to watch John Goodman dupe these rubes.”

“Fuck you,” you glare at him and retort quietly, calmly joining him under the soft blanket nonetheless.

You both settle down soon enough and absorb yourselves in the terrible movie. Your bodies sit curled up and pressed together under the warmth of your blanket. You’re a little pissed still, if only because you were promised a fort and Dave brought no blankets. Typical Strider deception. And yet, you can’t stay mad.

You’re miraculously having fun. You find yourselves actually laughing along at the crude jokes and glancing to each other to gauge reactions to plot points in the film. Before long, the credits roll and it seems the fun fest for fuckheads is about to wrap up sooner than you’re reticent to admit you’d like.

“Another?” Dave asks as though he just read your thoughts.

You want to, but you don’t want to come off too eager.

“I’ve got like ten more of these bad boys lined up,” he continues, taking note of the skepticism scrawled across your face. “It’s a bonafide cringe film fest in here. You can pick the next one.”

It’s just appealing enough that you oblige. He hands you his computer and you select one at random. At roughly 90 minutes apiece, you do some quick math transliteration to determine approximately how much time the pair of you could potentially waste staring at the screen and zoning out. You assume there are worse ways to drift along in space somewhat aimlessly and hit the play button.

The antics play on screen and you laugh and gasp in tandem, but otherwise stay quietly huddled up together aside from occasional remarks to rip into the shit quality of the plots of these movies. It’s actually comforting. It’s got you feeling warm and comfortable and like everything is actually fine for fucking once. You almost can’t believe you were going to storm in here with the express purpose of biting Dave’s head off. For just a while, you forget all your hang ups and frustrations and exist in this moment pleasantly.

Times passes quickly this way, and soon enough you’re starting up your third movie. You’ve grown a soft spot for the heavy set funny man, and your soft spot for palling around with Dave is in full swing too. By now he’s leaning on your shoulder, growing quieter as he grows sleepier. You get a little anxious again. The thoughts attempt to come full force, swirling around.

It’s more of the back and forth. By day he pisses you off within an inch of both your lives, and by night he’s sweet and charming and cuddly. It bugs you ceaselessly and you just want to know some semblance of peace among the chaos. The fucked up thing is you almost enjoy these highs and lows. The more you hate him during the day, the more he endears you at night.

Dave slumps against you when he fully knocks out. You can smell his weirdly soft hair and you like it. Your arm starts to fall asleep under his weight. His stupid body has gone limp and heavy and there’s little you can do, save for wriggle free.

Slowly, so as not to disturb him, you pull your limb from beneath him. He’s an asshole for inconveniencing you like this. Probably the worst asshole there is. Still, you don’t want him to wake up and squirm away. Your arm finds its way to sit wrapped around his waist. You don’t know where else to put it and it honestly fills you with a pretty satisfying feeling. it feels different than your time spent with Kanaya in a way you understand but aren't quite yet ready to put into words.

You conclude that your earlier petty wriggler aneurysm was in fact good for your well being because in this moment it just so happens you can’t bring yourself to give a shit. Everything feels suspiciously okay. John Goodman’s rugged jowls jiggle on screen and it’s okay. An objectively handsome human rests nuzzled up against your neck and it’s okay. Your think pan isn’t roiling with self loathing and it’s okay.

This whole set up is downright romantic, and as fucked up as that is, you’ve convinced yourself it’s totally and completely okay. Pretty fucking good, even. It’s stupid and it’s ugly and it’s totally okay to take a fucking break on yourself and just absolutely delight in the complete dumbfuckery of the moment. There’s no veneer to the situation. As much as that unnerves you, you would much rather indulge in self incriminating thoughts later.

You squeeze Dave’s shoulder tight to yourself and cuddle up. You’ll just have to resolve to kill him tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm happy with the progression I'm taking with this, and I hope you are too! 
> 
> Thank you once again for reading, it's very much appreciated. Comments and kudos go a very long way as well!
> 
> Be well, everyone.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thank you so much for reading! If you could spare a kudos, or even a small thought on the progression, I would be terribly grateful.
> 
> I have most of what I want already planned out, but if you have any suggestions or requests I'd be happy to do my best to acquiesce. 
> 
> Thank you, everyone!


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